


Falling, Floating, Flying

by beemotionpicture



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: Abuse, M/M, Science Bros, Suicide Attempt, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beemotionpicture/pseuds/beemotionpicture
Summary: Hulk had wings. Bruce didn’t.Then he met Tony, and suddenly he could fly again.





	Falling, Floating, Flying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ireadtoomuchfantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ireadtoomuchfantasy/gifts).



> For Naylizbeth.
> 
> Written for the [Science Bros discord server’s](https://discord.gg/yrs2ZjU) 2018 Secret Santa.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, Naomi!

Bruce used to have wings before the accident.

As a child, Bruce had kept them hidden so often that he’d become the object of ridicule for the other kids. The teachers would tell them to stop, of course, but then again they also said things like, “You don’t have to be ashamed of your wings, Robert,” and “I’m sure your parents think they’re lovely.” Bruce could ignore all that, because he’d rather be made fun of than have his dad grab at them again. Having his wings touched hurt more than any bruise, black eye or broken bone.

His mom never hid her wings. She always told him it was because his dad loved them so much, but it certainly didn’t seem that way whenever Brian would tear fistfuls of feathers out of them. He was getting sick of having to see his mom cry, to see her struggle to pull glass out of the skin behind her back. Rebecca’s wings were frail and crooked from being broken so often that he couldn’t even call them beautiful, and as Bruce got older, he noticed that less and less feathers grew back after she molted. It was like watching her wither away; those last few years, she could barely leave the house.

When it had become just him and Brian, he wondered if his wings had become yellow like his dad’s, if they had lost their sheen and atrophied from disuse. His dad had caught him staring blankly at his wings once, and…he had forced Bruce’s out to tear them from his back. His screams were the last straw for their neighbors, apparently, and finally Brian got taken far away from him.

So his wings stayed out of sight for years—stayed hidden for so long that even Bruce had forgotten what they looked like.

  
  


He came to live with his aunt, but she was the wrong one—Bruce had hoped that child services would have given him to Aunt Elaine, but he had the feeling her husband didn’t want him either. Still, sometimes he got to stay with them during his break from school, Aunt Susan foisting him over to them because “it was only fair”. He might not be wanted, but he preferred staying with them because he got to spend time with Jen.

His cousin had a lovely, pale pink plumage that matched the rosiness of her cheeks. Jen liked to draw wings, little doodles that she held up proudly for Bruce to see.

Jen was a polite kid, so she never pestered Bruce to see his wings. But she couldn’t hide her curiosity, so Bruce spun tales about his wings being the color of fire, or stories about how he couldn’t show them in public because he would attract too many girls.

His stories were always met with peals of laughter, and those were the happiest summers of his life.

  
  


High school hadn’t been so bad, surprisingly. It was the time of teenage angst and acts of rebellion, so most of his classmates had their wings hidden like him. Some people dyed the tips of their wings different colors, others threaded jewelry through them.

But the ones he couldn’t help but look at were the couples that touched wings, the ones that held hands in the hallways and kissed each other goodbye while they covered themselves in a fan of feathers.

Sometimes when Bruce returned home, he looked at himself in the mirror and tried to gather up the courage to bring them out again. To see what they would look like if they were a bright, beautiful blue, or maybe to just run his hands through the feathers and imagine that it was someone else touching them. But that would mean having to see himself for what he really was, and if his wings looked anything like his dad’s then he might actually break down. So he ignored these feelings and focused on school.

He was a good student, but he had also been lumped with the other rebellious ones, getting sent to detention and getting reprimanded when he wouldn’t let his wings out during events or on picture day.

High school was okay, overall. Bruce didn’t have any friends, so he kept to himself during those years.

  
  


College was a different animal entirely.

There were parties almost every other day, and Bruce had let himself get dragged to most of them. He had friends, he could handle a drink or two, people were too concerned about trying to look good to be mean—it was great.

College was great. How many people could say that?

Probably the only thing that bothered him was that Betty kept insisting that Bruce go on double dates with her and her boyfriend. Still, he humored her and let himself get set up a couple of times, but he didn’t really click with anybody.

Then during one of those dates, he thought that maybe clicking with someone didn’t really matter.

The woman was someone he shared a few classes with. Pretty, intelligent, and the whole night she had listened intently to him talk about his work, laughing at his jokes. Overall, she seemed to genuinely like Bruce. He had walked her home, and she invited him in for coffee. Which, he quickly realized, didn’t mean coffee at all.

She took him to bed where they gasped and sobbed and shook together, and she kissed him sweetly, like she meant it. She cradled his face and Bruce kissed her back, letting himself go. When it was over he buried his face into her hair and sighed, and then she ruined it by curling her wings around them both.

He had jerked away and startled her, had stammered out an apology and left her in tears.

And as he walked home, he realized he could never have this—that he could never give someone that part of himself.

  
  


Then he fell in love, and thought that maybe he could.

It took a long time for Bruce to get to a place where he could think that—maybe, just maybe—he’d let himself be a little selfish sometimes. That even he deserved nice things. It took an even longer time for him to muster up the nerve to ask Betty out.

They were good together, and for once Bruce could actually say he was…happy. Content. That he wasn’t just going through the motions, but that he’d looked forward to getting out of bed each day. _Well_ , that was debatable—Betty had been in bed with him, so sometimes he found himself making excuses to stay in.

Betty had asked to see them once, his wings. Bruce had smiled fondly and told her, “I’ll show you when we get married.” And that was the ridiculous story of how he proposed.

He let himself dream of settling down somewhere, having little ones with Betty’s beautiful wings running around and he and her growing old together, fingers and feathers intertwined.

  
  


Then the accident happened.

The Hulk was a manifestation of himself more than his wings ever were. Bruce had hidden himself for years, and now he was out in the open for the whole world to see, and he was uglier than he could have even imagined.  
  
He’d take the taunts ( _“Broken Bruce Banner!”_ ) and the beatings ( _“You good for nothing waste of space. Stop looking at me like that,_ freak _—”_ ) over this any day. He could pretend, back then, that the words meant nothing. He looked at himself and what he had done and found that he just couldn’t anymore.

The first time he had woken up after a transformation, his back ached. He was alone in a clearing, clammy and shivering from exhaustion, wishing the pain would end. His first instinct had been to curl into a ball and cover himself, but—

He couldn’t feel them.

Bruce hadn’t been able to breathe. Hadn’t been able to do anything but lie there, hands fisted in the dirt, frozen for who knows how long.

Bruce hadn’t found it in himself to cry. He couldn’t do that anymore, either.

  
  


The Hulk had wings, a pair he could actually use to fly.

They were as tough as his skin, providing cover for him from bullets and explosions alike. With them, no one stood a chance against him. Hulk was proud of them, he never hid them, and when Bruce had first seen footage of the Hulk he had laughed hysterically.

The Hulk was a monster, but even he had wings—so what did that make him?

  
  
  


The Hulk protected Bruce from everything, even from himself. Especially from himself.

He was like Bruce’s own fucked up guardian angel, one that caught him when all Bruce wanted to do was fall, one that stitched him up from the inside out when Bruce tried everything to tear himself apart.

But even something had to kill him. Something _had_ to be able to kill him, because Bruce was human. He willed himself to be human, he told himself that every day for years trying to believe it. The Hulk was the monster, he wasn’t the Hulk. The Hulk killed those people, it was the _Hulk_ , the Hulk killed those people, _he killed those people_ —

That day in the mountains, Bruce had been ready to die in the cold. He raised the gun to his mouth and for the first time in so long, he smiled. He was ready.

The Hulk had different thoughts, however, and when Bruce stirred in the back of their mind—he thought he could see himself surrounded by clouds, feel the dampness on his skin.

But he knew it couldn’t be real, because the sky was no place for him. Nowhere in the world was a place for someone like him. And so he ran and ran and tried again…he tried to be good and pretended there was something in him that wasn’t entirely rotten.

  
  


People couldn’t fly, so they invented ways to reach the sky. First it was just airplanes and helicopters, but then one day Bruce woke up to quinjets and helicarriers, which were apparently a _thing_ now.

Bruce had jumped out of the sky and lived. He had fought monsters and lived—in fact he was one himself. Bruce had seen war and poverty and famine, he had seen the worst of the world and the best of it.

Bruce had seen a great deal of many things, but he had never seen anything like Tony Stark.

He had walked into the room, and Bruce’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. He had opened his mouth, and Bruce was enchanted. Their eyes met and Bruce’s heart slowed down, and Bruce found himself looking at Tony in wonder.

Tony held his gaze and wasn’t afraid. Maybe that was why when he turned and walked away, Bruce had followed so readily, eyes settled on Tony’s back.

Tony’s wings had never been his own. They belonged to his parents, then to his company, and then after he was kidnapped they belonged to the public.

Bruce grew up seeing those wings in magazines, broadcasted on TV—he even had the pleasure of seeing them blown up on screen during a conference here and there (you know, when he used to be a guy who was invited to those things).

The point was, even Bruce had owned Tony’s wings in some way. They were a beautiful, golden pair that shimmered in the sun, in the flashes of cameras that followed him constantly.

At least, they used to be.

When Bruce met Tony, he had thought plenty about him—about his work and his wit and, hell, even about his eyes—before he even got to his wings. But alone in the lab together, his thoughts couldn’t help but drift to them.

They weren’t beautiful at all. Tony’s wings were now a dull gray, and they didn’t look the healthiest. They had deep gouges in them, scars where feathers didn’t grow back, burns that left Bruce wincing at the sight. A part of him felt sorry for Tony because those wings reminded him of his mother’s.

Tony had the wings of a victim—no, the ones of a survivor. And Bruce…respected that, more than anything. He realized he had been wrong about something; Tony’s wings had never been his own, but they only belonged to other people by choice. Because Tony had learned from a young age to make anything at his disposal into a weapon: his words, his mind, his body.

Bruce smiled to himself at that.

Then, while they were working, Tony poked Bruce in the side. With his wing.

His head snapped up, startled. But Tony said nothing, looking down at his work and offering the bag of blueberries.

Bruce stared at him for a good, long while but Tony just shook the bag at him.

Bruce took a blueberry and popped it into his mouth.

Tony still hadn’t raised his eyes, tapping away at the screen, but Bruce could see he was pleased. Bruce didn’t get embarrassed easily—the Hulk had long since gotten rid of any sense of self-consciousness that he had—but the warmth that had settled in his core was heavy and real.

Tony’s eyes flicked up to look at his expression, and Bruce very nearly found that warmth spreading to his face.

They spoke for what seemed like forever, trading quips and exchanging smiles that they would have to share with no one else.

Then Steve came into the room, and the moment was broken. And then Fury, and Natasha, and even Thor followed—then Bruce was snapping and behind his anger it registered that besides Tony’s stricken face, Bruce could also see that he had hidden his wings.

  
  


Things became fuzzy after that.

  
  


Bruce had to get to Stark Tower, and he had to get there _fast_.

He shrugged on some pants and walked to the side of the building where he could see that there was, at least what seemed to be, an actual alien portal above New York. Right above Stark Tower.

He rolled his eyes, but that didn’t change the fact that he had to go to Stark Tower.

He received a pep talk (that he didn’t ask for, but was still very much appreciated), straddled the sad looking motorcycle, showed up in Manhattan on said motorcycle, and then—he had seen Tony _fly_.

For the first time in his life, Bruce found himself _jealous_ , actually jealous of the Hulk…because Bruce looked at Tony and wanted to share that with him, but he knew he’d never be able to.

And so Bruce let go, and the Hulk got to fly with him, grinning savagely and showing off as he weaved around Tony in the suit.

At the back of their mind, Bruce was wistful. They would make a good pair, he thought; if only Tony could ever think the same of him.

The aliens didn’t stand a chance against them, of course.

There was tiny, fierce Natasha, who batted away aliens with her wings like it didn’t even hurt to have them touched.

There was Steve, with tough wings like the Hulk’s that he used to shield civilians from anything that could hurt them.

There was that stupid guy with a bow and arrow who thought he could jump off buildings and fly—the same guy who squawked when Hulk caught him as he fell (Clint, Bruce supplied, but Hulk just grumbled in their mind).

And then there was that ugly man who showed off by flying with his hammer and not the huge pair of wings on his back.

Hulk’s were still bigger.

They fought and they fought _well_ together, and a tiny part of Bruce believed that he could actually make a place for himself with these people.

But Hulk and Bruce couldn’t see Tony. Where was Tony?

Hulk smashed and he roared but Bruce kept them focused, kept them at it so that they could end the fight and _find Tony_.

Bruce was as startled as the Hulk when the aliens dropped to the ground. The Hulk raised his gaze and roared triumphantly at the sky.

But Bruce raised his gaze and saw that Tony was falling. _Falling_ , not flying like he was supposed to.

Bruce had let people fall before: his mother, then Betty, then himself. The Hulk hadn’t been able to help those first couple of times, but he had protected Bruce ever since. And he would protect Bruce now, because this meant protecting his heart.

Then Hulk and Bruce were catching him, cradling Tony in the Hulk’s huge palms. He was limp in their grip and Bruce winced when Hulk dropped Tony to the ground with a grunt, expecting him to wake up. He didn’t.

The others tried to approach but Hulk roared at them, swinging his hand to tell them to go away. He clipped Thor in the side, causing him to go, “Oof,” and maybe some other time the Hulk would be amused, but all he could feel was frustration and fear and anger that the tiny tin man wasn’t waking up.

They insisted on coming closer still and Hulk _roared_ , before he got fed up and huddled beside Tony. His wings sheltered them from the outside, and Bruce pushed his way through to the front of their mind. Hulk let him, because hopefully puny Banner could wake him up.

Bruce felt around the side of his helmet, because there had to be a manual release… _there_. The faceplate popped open, and Bruce felt Tony’s breath ghost against his hand. He sagged in relief, sighing out his name.

Then Tony stirred and Bruce held his breath. He blinked his big, expressive eyes open and they widened at the sight of the Hulk’s wings protecting them. Of Bruce’s wings.

And they really were Bruce’s wings, stretched out from his back and he could _feel_ them again. It gave him a sense of relief, left him breathless and giddy with excitement, and he hadn’t felt this way in years. And it was Tony who had made him feel this way. Tony, who was looking at him with amazement and wonder and looking at Bruce like _he_ was the brilliant one.

The Hulk had great, white wings, and Bruce had always regarded them with bitterness and hate. But it was Hulk’s wings that had saved Tony, and he found that maybe he could learn to love them, a little bit.

But it was Bruce’s wings that covered them. His wings, mostly pepper but with a little salt in them, like the curls that rested on his head. They weren’t huge like Hulk’s, and to be honest—they were a little cramped in here.

His feathers brushed against Tony’s suit and Bruce watched as the gauntlet around his hand retracted. Tony reached out to touch them, but hesitated at the last moment. Bruce shifted his wings instead, reaching out to meet Tony himself. His eyes flicked up to Bruce and they shared another breathless smile, one only for the two of them.

The silence was broken when Tony cleared his throat. “Well. You’ve certainly got a pair on you, huh, Banner?” He leered.

Bruce laughed brightly, giving him a fond, exasperated look.

  
  


Bruce let Tony preen his feathers that day.

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I’d write wingfic, but this was really fun to explore! I never finish things, so I'm glad I was able to write this oneshot.


End file.
